Lestrade in an Empty House
by Hyperactive Random Girl
Summary: We all wonder what Lestrade was thinking during "The Empty House", don't we?
1. Chapter 1

Out of all my life, 1894 is the year when I came closest to meeting a ghost.

Then again, the man in question was never dead in the first place.

I was conversing (To be honest, I was arguing) with Gregson over the Adair murder when young Hopkins came bursting in through the door. "Inspector!" he yelled, waving a scrap of paper in the air.

Gregson and I turned to stare at him. "What now, Hopkins?" Gregson asked, sounding irritated. Stanley Hopkins was known 'round the Yard for having fits of hyperactivity at the most bloody inopportune times.

Of course, he kept it in around Mr. Holmes. Never irritate the person you idolize, or so the lad believed.

"I-I-! This message- it- it-" Hopkins looked flustered, pointing to the paper in his hand. He seemed to be in equal parts shock and jubilation.

"Give it to me, Hopkins!" I snapped, snatching the paper out of his hands. "Whatever it is, it can't be as shocking as you think-" I stopped short and stared at the missive, absolutely floored.

I plopped down in my chair, barely listening to Gregson's questions as to what the letter contained.

_Inspector(s):_

_DO NOT THROW THIS LETTER AWAY. No doubt you Yarders have had more than your share of letters from "me", declaring that I am alive. If you didn't believe any of them, I will be thoroughly disappointed in the Yard's methods of investigation. Then again, I never had much faith in you anyway. _

_I digress. _

_More to the point, I, Sherlock Holmes, am alive. Once more, do not throw this letter away._

_Start patrolling the street outside of Camden House at half-past nine. When you hear a police whistle, be prepared to arrest a criminal._

_He will be operating from the street._

_- S. Holmes_

I wasn't sure whether to dance around in jubilation like Hopkins or to scream in frustration at the so typically vague letter. I settled on an incredulous stare at the paper, which lasted for a good two minutes until Gregson snapped his fingers in front of me.

"Lestrade?" he asked, sounding rather confused. "You've gone from ferret-faced to fish-faced, now! What is in that letter?"

I blinked, and grinned cheerily at him. Gregson looked rather taken aback at my change of expression.

"Oh, nothing of importance; have a look!" I lied through my teeth, handing my archenemy the missive. I snickered, imagining the surprise he would have.

He took the piece of foolscap and promptly blanched the exact color of it. Gregson's eyes widened, and he looked up to stare at me in shock.

"Sir?" Hopkins asked, timid as a mouse. We whirled around to look at him. "Is it real? The letter, I mean. It's not forged, is it?"

I groaned dismally, all my cheer from startling Gregson gone. "Nobody could imitate that blasted pomposity Holmes has."

Gregson agreed with me, for once.

"Oh, it's definitely real, Hopkins..." he moaned, looking back down at the paper.

I would have laughed at the depressed expression he wore, if it weren't for the fact that I probably looked the same.

Young Hopkins, however, was overjoyed. His was a clear-cut case of hero-worship. Alas, there was nothing I could do to prevent his exuberant dance (if you could call it that) around my office.

Resulting in him tripping over the edge of my rug and falling flat on his face.

Not very professional, but let that slipup go to blazes. We were all acting rather unprofessional that day.

After the lad had gotten up and brushed himself off, he asked breathlessly, "Who are you going to send to patrol the streets?" It was an obvious plea to be one of the ones put on the job.

"I'll put you on the job, Hopkins, but you'd better reign in your hyperactiveness." I had my scruples about sending him. Though it would likely be worse if I didn't, what with him probably pestering me until I gave in.

Gregson frowned. "I won't be able to come; I have another case to work on...I don't know if I'm glad or disappointed about that."

Lucky chap.

"Well, that's one less person. I have the feeling that all the Yard wouldn't want to miss seeing a dead man come back to life." Though I'd be more inclined to strangle him afterwards.

Gregson smirked, probably guessing what was on my mind. "Well, I must go now!" He waved goodbye cheerily and departed.

Bloody wonderful. I was alone in my office with a hyperactive man (more like a boy) who was practically bouncing off the walls.

"Hopkins!" I barked, my hold on my temper slipping a bit. "I told you to reign in your excitement! Now stop, or I won't allow you to patrol Camden House!"

Hopkins froze in a comical manner, then slowly sat down. "Yes, sir," he muttered abashedly.

I tried not to burst out laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later, it was at last half-past nine. Hopkins was once more bouncing around, though less conspicuously. It wouldn't do for us to be recognized as Yarders.

All of a sudden, I heard the loud whiz of an air gun and the distinctive sound of shattering glass. I turned around in confusion. Hadn't Holmes said that the murderer would be operating from the street?

I heard several loud, inarticulate yells and a loud thump. Moments later, the shrill squeal of a police whistle sounded. "Hopkins!" I yelled to him. He looked ready to break down the doors of Camden House. "Stay here!"

He was much too young to get murdered by an escaping criminal, anyway.

Two constables smashed through the door of the old, creaky house. We rushed in, being careful not to step on the shivered pieces of wood on the floor.

And stopped, mouths agape.

There stood Sherlock Holmes himself, rubbing his rather bruised neck and coughing. In spite of that, he was grinning like a lunatic (who ever said he wasn't one?) at a man (who was smiling back just as happily) who had another fellow pinned down.

With a start I realized that it was Doctor Watson who was beaming at Mr. Holmes. It was a stark contrast to his expression, three years ago, when he stepped off the train from Switzerland and announced that Holmes was dead.

I suddenly had the compulsive urge to throttle Mr. Holmes and demand the answer as to why he had tricked the world (his best, nay, only friend included) into thinking he was dead.

But that was probably one of the only ways to wipe the Doctor's smile off his face at the moment. I'd rather that the silly grin stay there. Besides, the man would probably murder me if I laid a hand on Mr. Holmes.

I started out of my thoughts at the sound of the voice of a (not exactly) dead man asking, "That you, Lestrade?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in London, sir." More good for the Doctor, really, than for me.

"I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that's to say, you handled it fairly well."

I wasn't sure how to respond to this- was it a compliment? An insult?- so I said nothing. Instead, I tried to make out who the prisoner was. I pulled out two candles and a matchbox from my coat, and lit them just as Holmes shut the blinds to hide the scene from curious passers-by.

I very nearly dropped the candles when I saw that it was Colonel Moran. I stared at him in amazement as Holmes spoke, his words falling on deaf ears.

Suddenly, Moran turned to me. "You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal way."

I blinked. It seemed reasonable enough, and I said so. Then I turned back to Mr. Holmes. ""Nothing further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"

Holmes ignored me and picked up the airgun, speaking of its history. Then he gave it to me. "I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which fit it."

"You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes. Anything further to say?"

"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

I frowned. Wasn't it rather obvious? "What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him."

What the devil was he talking about?

And why must he persist in his insufferable tactic of handing the credit to me? I am sure that it is just his method of ensuring that we give him only the toughest cases.

Really, there was no need to worry about that. Giving him a "simple" case would only result in his moaning and groaning, neither of which I enjoyed. For when Sherlock Holmes was in a bad mood, he made sure as to the fact that everyone else would be in a bad mood.

"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

"The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain— Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second-floor front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That's the charge, Lestrade."

I gaped at him in astonishment, then back at Colonel Moran. I turned back around to see him grin at the Doctor and say, "And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."

As I watched them walk off, laughing over some obscure inside joke, I once more quelled the urge to throttle him.

What a bloody _wonderful_ friend Mr. Holmes was.

* * *

**There are several direct quotes from "The Empty House", so it's reasonable to figure that I didn't write them.**


End file.
